


Pain (and other manners of love)

by Fruipit



Category: The Wicked Years Series - Gregory Maguire, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Schwartz/Holzman
Genre: Drabble, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruipit/pseuds/Fruipit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, "Saints are not always the greatest men". </p><p>There was no choice but escape. The Wizard ensured that. But Elphaba had never allowed anyone to dictate her choices, and she would not start now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain (and other manners of love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caliax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caliax/gifts).



> This is my interpretation (and way of compromise) of how the end of Act I should have been conducted. Inspired by both the book- and musical-verse.
> 
> I was also attempting to emulate Maguire's unique style. Some parts may have been successful, some parts may not have been. This was an exercise for myself, in writing this and in writing Gelphie, and also a thank-you to Caliax, who is amazing <3 so thank you. And, enjoy :)

The strength of the door wouldn't hold, and Elphaba had no intention of drawing out the final moment anyway. The Palace Guards were relentless in their pursuit, though both Elphaba and Glinda were safe – or however close they could get, locked in an attic – for the time being. 

The banging on the door was incessant; alarms rang, people shrieked in the streets. Even Glinda, who was not prone to raising her voice, was loud against the silence of Elphaba's mind. 

There was nothing she could do.

There was to be no escape for the two of them, this she realised. But she refused to die, and she refused to bow down to the fraud of a Wizard. There were precious few options left. The noise became louder and more urgent. She thought her head might rend, when suddenly everything stopped. The alarms ceased, and the banging on the door faded into echoes, and then into memory. Even Glinda appeared to have run out of breath. But then she whispered, "What are we going to do, Elphie?" and Elphaba had no answer. 

A silence fell over the two. The Wizard would not cease, they knew. Whatever silence there was could not bode well. Time was short, with no time to plan nor execute any such decision. There was to be no escape for the two of them, thought Elphaba once again. A loud clatter sounded from a corner of the dank attic, and Elphaba started, and had to revise that idea.

A flying broomstick was not the strangest thing Elphaba had ever seen – her own unnatural hue was testament. But she was not used to fortune, for that was what this was.

She turned to Glinda for the first time since entering the Wizard's chamber. What redness she had initially taken for anger was, in fact, something else entirely – for when the moonlight struck Glinda's rounded face, the streaks across her cheeks became apparent. 

Elphaba reached out a hand, not for the broom (which had ambled over) but for the young woman next to her. "I won't go back," said Elphaba, "Not to the Wizard, nor to Crage Hall and Miss Morrible. Come with me, Glinda..."

But Glinda shook her head. She didn't give a reason, and Elphaba didn't ask for one. It was not her place. She ignored the sting of Glinda's tears as she kissed her, and the sound of the breaking door ripped them apart. The dark of the attic gave them a brief moment, and Elphaba kissed her again. "I never told you," said Elphaba, "But you look like a saint."

And then she was gone, through the attic window and into the night. Glinda watched her silhouette until it vanished beyond sight. 

Elphaba never looked back.


End file.
